Ocher eyes glazed with flames 
gaze at outstretched wings 
and grow muddy lashes long, 
thick as tied twine rising into sky. 
She loops the strands ‘round Heron’s feet 
while blindly digging pale nails 
in her own flabby flesh, grasping at sick bones —  
like ballast, she throws them overboard 
her living blimp, praying with enough pain, 
she might push a foot off the ground 
and glide far, far away. 

Preview from my upcoming 2023 collection, The Soul Without a Summer.

(c) 2022 Saralyn Caine. All rights reserved.